


Love Is Vicious; Love Is Viscous

by yami_no_bakura



Category: Diabolik Lovers
Genre: Asphyxiation, BDSM, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Knifeplay, Mild Gore, PWP, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Smut, Switching, Vampire Bullshit, i did my best to replicate his speech pattern with some fuckin bizzarre results, the au where "eve" is willing to indulge him lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yami_no_bakura/pseuds/yami_no_bakura
Summary: Reader is a young woman, similar to Azusa without the regenerative properties. Set early on in their relationship, Azusa offers her his blood in order to form an unbreakable bond.





	Love Is Vicious; Love Is Viscous

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags. This is shamelessly self-indulgent blood-smut, with everything that entails. I tried to stay away from giving the reader too many defining characteristics, but honestly, I wrote this for me. Have... fun(?) ^_^;; Feedback is always appreciated!

“You’ve never... had it before...?”

Azusa’s eyes light up with something not dissimilar to innocence, like a groveling fanboy overeager to share their favorite artist’s newest song with the world. His smile, worn down over god knows how many years, perks up in a way that’s distinctly boyish, excerburant over the simple joys of the physical world he finds himself floating about in.

“No…” you can’t bring yourself to look at him. You feel like shrinking, turning invisible, squirming under a gaze that you know bears you no ill will.

“I’ve never had someone else’s blood before.” you murmur, almost scornful of this fact, but mostly scornful towards your own embarrassment, your own predisposition that lead you to this moment, negotiating a scene with an honest-to-god vampire.

“I’ve only had my own. When I… you know.” You gesture vaguely at your arms.

He understands, of course. With things like this, he always does, so much so that it makes you feel like an infant. What’s one lifetime of struggling with your identity as opposed to the indiscriminate number of lives he’s lived, fully aware of who he is? Never losing sight of the one thing he wants, without the shitty trappings and limits of mortality…

And it’s right before him, now. Flesh and blood, the promise of pain and rebirth. He closes in, practically serpentine in his movements.

“Eve…” his voice his hushed, harsh in your ear with it’s increasingly desperate and lewd drawl.

“Take mine…! Cut me…! I may not be human… but blood is still blood… earthy.... savory. _Living_. ...If you kiss my warm insides with that gentle knife… there’s no way you won’t have fun…! Please, drink…”

  
He lingers too long on his pauses, dripping with a sort of volatile excitement where his tone would normally be distant, flat. It’s plain to see that he’s getting worked up— he’s crowding you, inching closer to your face, until your back is against the wall in the most cliché of poses.

It isn’t that you’re resisting— you’re embarrassed, unable to respond to such a bold display. Cold eyes and crisp shirts and disdain hidden beneath bleached lab coats whisper in the back of your brain, _this love is bad; do not speak; do not move. Monster. You’re a monster_.

You try to focus on the happy rush of pleasure instead, bashfully turning your head away. Not a deer in the headlights, but a kept pet and emergency ration, fed and pampered and relishing in your usual self-slaughter. This is okay, better than fine. Raw beauty will be delivered unto you.

“Hah…” he sighs dreamily in your ear, and as much as it sounds like a small, affectionate noise of appreciation, you’re fairly certain that it's anemia-induced panting. It’s like he’s too pure for shame, and you’re trying to communicate with your rapidfire heart rate that you must be cleansed of yours.

“The horrible, itchy feeling sprawled all over your flesh… crackling beneath your skin... writhing in your belly… we can _cut_ it right out… let’s mix the nectar inside us together!”

He almost sounds like he’s going to hyperventilate, despite the long, shuddering breaths that punctuate his every thought. Although you can’t say you’re doing much better, squeezing your thighs together and trying to will yourself out of existence.

Why can’t you say anything? You like this. You like this humiliation, this unholy anticipation, more than you’ve ever liked sex. You’re enamored with Azusa, with with what’s to come, far exceeding anything you could do to yourself. So, why can’t you speak?

“P-Please…” you sound pathetic even to your own ears, voice barely above a whisper. You close your eyes. If someone as timid as you has to switch, you can at least be a little selfish.

“Will you give it to me first?”

His soft eyes widen, barely noticable, and you blink.

Here’s where a dramatic, properly italicized sound effect would go if the wickedly sharp knife made any noise as it glided through both air and skin alike— seemingly out of nowhere.

Your upper arm. You feel it before you _feel_ it.

There’s a lag in sensation that should be somewhat concerning, but your central nervous system has long stopped cooperating with your brain. Then, a feeling like an electricity— you choke on your own fumbling inhale as the nerves where your skin’s been slit tingle. The shock to your system reverberates with a pleasant clarity and distinct sharpness.

It feels amazing.

Your pupils blow up to match his, expanding far enough to eclipse the moon. Adrenaline and dopamine run rampant through the lump of mashed potatoes between your ears as the rush of arousal and pain startles you into absolute awakeness.

It’s not too deep— the scarring will be notable, but you don’t feel the alarming sag of skin unable to knit itself back together. He’s being careful with your body, not quite yet well-acquainted enough with his own to have lost its mortality.

It shouldn’t be long, though, before you can trade in clawmark-like scars for ravaging vivisections. You're sure the look on your face must be sleazy, just thinking about all the ways you'll be able to to be disconfigured and reconfigured once you turn.

He gives you six more in quick succession, and you shudder, rear up, and howl.

“Ah… Azusa, _please_ …” Everything in your brain loosens, the intelligence stuttering for a moment in your bloodstream before bubbling up, leaking through your new cuts. You’re stupid now, complacent, loose and eager, squirming in his arms. The foolish prelude to an even more senseless happiness.

Blazing brighter than the sun, racing through your veins; _drip, drip, drip_.

It’s not enough. He knows it’s not even close.

Azusa bends on one knee with all the elegance of a knight, still supporting you where you’ve slumped against the wall, and brings his lips to your bloodied arm. He licks and bites around the area before he begins to apply suction and pressure; drinking languidly and nipping at the weeping flesh, causing it to tear even more. He wants to hurt you, wreck you, and bleed you. But there’s an underlying caution— you have to be able to return the favor, for both of your sakes.

This is how you’ll truly become one. It’s a precious, unbreakable ritual that he’s graciously initiated at your insistence, and you intend to see it through.

You’re unable to stop the movement of your hips as you sigh brokenly. It’s a soft and tiny sound with barely any force to it at all— the pain is almost ticklish: wet, warm, and free-flowing like your iron essence. His tongue glides neatly over the lines of _white hot fire, dipping in to taste your ripe insides_.

**(!!!)**

Gradually, he ceases to further abrade your wounds, locking eyes with you as he slowly tongue-fucks your damaged limb, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

There’s a low burn, a smattering of sensationalism spreading within. There’s a long moment of wet, bridal sounds that are then swallowed up by silence.

Your strength, balance, and fine motor skills are all out the window, and your mind has been silenced by the pounding in your ears. You are a soldier of light gleefully headed for the guillotine, your mind that of an animal.

Eventually, Azusa pulls away and and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Whether he did that on purpose to make you wish even more for a taste is unknown, but you don’t have much time to ponder it.

Unsteadily, he rises to his feet (his hardness is neither unnoticed nor unexpected), and offers his arm out to you. You cling to it and let yourself be pulled up, staggering a bit. All your senses enhanced for the price of some dizziness and the shaving off of your lifespan. All your fears at ease, serene, you breathe.

Girlishly, you nuzzle his chest, unable to reach his face due to the difference in height— he was short for a vampire, but you were positively minuscule for a human, making you feel even more dwarfed by his love.

If you had any sense in your progressively decaying brain, you’d be intimidated.

“Let’s go to my room… the others can’t interrupt…” his voice is molasses-slow, dazed but certain.

You try to suppress a completely senseless giggle, holding on tight as you rush through the hallway. It’s a bit of a blur— the door is locked behind you, you’re on the bed, and Azusa is eying his collection rather than you, appraising each and every elaborate, shiny treasure before choosing a knife to be claimed with. The one he cut you with earlier— a relatively plain, small piece he carries around the house for sudden compulsions— is put away, and replaced with something much more ornate. You can feel yourself blushing at the sight of it, like the weapon is some sort of Bad Dragon dildo that you’re being expected to wield.

God, what the hell is wrong with you. The more time you spend in isolation with these bloodsuckers, your common sense will evaporate, and even your conscience will disappear.

Rainbow-iridescent blade; genuine turquoise, mermaid-shaped handle with baleful, opal eyes; much larger than you _should_ use on yourself. Your transparent, sickly skin would part like butter underneath it to reveal brittle bones— although you have heard tales of large, healthy men being able to take as much. Further staying within the realm of sanity, it's non-serrated. You breathe a small sigh of relief. You weren’t quite sure if you were ready for playing peek-a-boo with his guts yet.

You wonder if Azusa is holding back for the vestiges of your human sensibilities, and reverently accept the weapon with open palms upon which he gingerly places it.

The mood in the room shifts. Azusa casually lifts his shirt over his head like he isn’t aware of the beauty his supernatural agelessness grants him. Eternally youthful, virile, a rose that will never fully bloom. The distinct lack of difference between his corpulent pallor and yours should be concerning. It isn't. The pinkish red under his eyes looks like otherworldly rouge, adding definition and color to a face like a ghost or a hologram. A refraction of light within darkness.

His body is more slender and impressive than yours, doll-like in its proportions despite its strength, sporting (poorly, loosely wrapped) bandages like an off-the-shoulder cardigan, all the way down to his wrists.

He notices you staring, and offers a kind, devious smile.

“Jealous?”

You are _salivating_.

“Don't worry… I won’t let you leave until you're properly satisfied… properly _exsanguinated_ … but it's my turn. I've been good… so please, hurt me now…”

He sits on the bed next to you, the plush cushions hardly creaking. His closeness radiates an aura you can only feel in this heightened state, the shimmering heat of his nearness irresistible and almost palpable in the air.

Is this how vampires feel all the time? Eventually, will you be able to _smell_ the ambrosia lurking in his veins with simple proximity?

You let out a steadying, slow exhale and ready yourself. You grip the blade tightly, signaling for him to lay back. Even without words, his eyes light up, and he lays himself down like an offering, arms at his sides. Now _you_ feel like the predator.

You're the worst, and he’s no better.

Dizzily, you take a bold swipe at his bicep— an area you wouldn't dare tamper with if he was human. However, you’re used to razor blades and poorly-sharpened pocket knives, and apply too much force. A gash caves in on his chest cavity, flesh peeling back to reveal yellow fat cells, an exotic fruit; but thankfully it doesn't extend into his organs.

You begin to panic as blood sluggishly rises to the surface, your monkey brain scrambling for a first aid kit, lamenting fucking up so gruesomely on the first cut— you were supposed to be good at this, damn it!

Before you can pull away, though, he has a vice-grip on your wrist, and pulls you closer, face-to-wound. It's grizzly and oozing, close to where his heart would be. The surrounding skin is gaping, thick with scarlet and surely scalding to the touch; and the downright voyeuristic view of his living, breathing chest, all opened up for you… it's a tease. _It's way too far._

It's the most obscene thing you’ve ever seen.

Vibrant red with bubbling hints of gold.

“ _Lick it_.” He hisses with more urgency and authority than you’ve ever heard from him.

And something in you snaps.

You dive in, eating out his cut with surprising ferocity for someone who doesn’t even have fangs yet.

The taste blooms in your mouth, washes down the back of your throat like hot cocoa in the dead of winter, or a cup of hearty soup after fasting for days. You’ve never had the chance to this much of a glutton, only being able to manage a few good mouthfuls of your own before the anemia kicked in full-force. You slurp down his heady, potent juices in earnest, scraping your teeth against the burning-sensitive inside of his muscle in the process. It tastes like sex, like touching the stars, like licking the dirt and seeing god. The Mukamis once proposed that you may just be a natural-born sin eater, much to the youngest’s delight.

You keep at it, cheekily flicking your tongue in and out of the fissure, until coppery, molten dark chocolate coins begin to congeal in the back of your throat.

All the while, Azusa is wailing, keening and screaming, begging you for more and _more, please, rip my heart out, consume my soul, kiss and lap at my selfishly leaking gore! Please…! Drain me like a bathtub!_

You splutter, nearly choking at that last request. The euphoria of sexual bloodshed crosses over into something akin to a bad porno parody. You can’t help but laugh, covering your mouth to catch what you nearly wretch up in your coughing fit. The moment isn’t ruined, just… made softer, lighter, more palatable. You’re still sticky with unholy things and sticky downstairs and _high_. Azusa can’t seem to understand what’s so funny, though, which has you nearly busting out in tears. Your jaw goes slack with a hearty guffaw, and despite your best efforts, some leaks out of your mouth. Dribbles down your neck, over your chest, disappearing.

You love this.

You swear to god this stuff contains pheromones, and only vampires and really fucked up humans are affected by them. There is no metaphor. Blood is a drug. And you’ll keep chasing the same sensation until you turn to ash, going out with a lightning strike.

You wipe any viscous unpleasantness off of your face and kiss him properly, feeding him like a baby bird. You’ll admit that face-sucking is a bit of a garish, base display, but it’s well worth it to his eyes glaze over with _openness, need, trust_. You’re feeding him his inner beauty and forcing him to accept it’s worth. He’ll attend to the needs that prickle up your spine on hot summer nights, warm your bed, and give you comfort. He’ll look after the _thing_ inside you, and you’ll keep him sane in the hellish dreamscape that is eternal life.

While you’re feeling confident and fuzzy with purpose, you move to straddle him, grinding roughly against his crotch. He squirms and ruts up into your weight like an animal. It’s basic and ugly, but it works well enough. He melts even more into you, and you’re nothing but a passenger in this meatsack.

You have no control over the hands that reach down to wring his neck, causing him to spit what’s left of your shared blood back into your mouth.

_Snowballing? More like snuff-balling._

You have no control over your wild thoughts, or the increasingly vacant, raptuos look on your partner's face as your hands tighten, constricting with a force you didn’t know you had. The wheezing, struggling breaths become a high-pitched keening until they’re cut off altogether. You keep rolling your hips against his— dry, uncomfortable. There’s a pressure building in the back of your head like needles, like _you’re_ the one being choked. You apply more and more pressure, watching his eyes bulge cartoonishly; tongue lolling, a deep red hue settling over his face. You can start to feel a damp spot where you’re sitting, and you _press harder_ , until—

Snapping out of it, you let go, pulling away like you’ve been burnt. Azusa coughs and sobs and tries to thank you through the gross hacking. It’s so fucking cute; you just want to eat him until you’re all the same body fused together, a horrid lump of flesh in harmony. _Happy, happy, happy!_

You squeal, unable to control your affection, and nuzzle his drooling face, assuring him that you’re the one who ought to be thanking him. No human could ever indulge you like this, sharing the brutality of love in a give-and-take spectacle. You whisper kind, giddy words in his ear, moving to undo his pants with one hand and grabbing the discarded knife with the other.

You hand it to him and smile, nodding. His shorts are pulled down to his thighs, and his you lean into him again, trapping his cock against your damp panties. Rocking against him unsteadily, you groan in his ear,

“Mark me up some more. Fuck me. Just like you, I need more pain! I’ll make it hurt for you!”

You unceremoniously jab two fingers into his laceration, scissoring haphazardly. His body spasms. A lewd splatter covers your wrist, and he sings, harsh and strained, like a songbird shot through the throat.

With a warbling cry, he bears down on you with the knife, making three long yet well-calculated incisions on your arm that you already can tell will be permanent. The highly-strung tension building up inside you seems to erupt at once, and before you can make a move, the previously docile vampire is upon you.

Azusa shoves your panties to the side and forces his way into your sopping cunt. He pierces deeply into you, and it’s uncharacteristically rough— the way he pulls you closer, a hand on your spine— the way he takes your profusely bleeding appendage between his fangs like a goddamn chew toy, until what used to be your good arm looks like _absolute mincemeat_ between his reddened lips.

He begins to move. Your nerves are on fire, an alarm blaring through your foggy and sloppy consciousness like a carnival tune. You fuck to an unheard beat, barely aware of anything except the white-hot pain of injury and the cramping, clenching sensation in your abdomen and inner walls. There’s slurping, heavy breathing, and heavily slurred pleading; criminal sounds and a protesting mattress. It’s gross, and you kind of hate it, but the blood loss leaves you so very detached that you process most of the internal pain as discomfort.

You are brutally fucked into putty, gushing sweet and sluggish syrup, being consumed and invaded as Azusa screams out his love for you. The edges of your vision blacken. Any minute now, you’ll be going into hypovolemic shock— in layman’s terms, passing the fuck out. Brokenly, you attempt to put syllables together and communicate your distress, but what comes out is a long string of vowels blended together in a drunk, whorish cry.

Luckily, he seems to realize that you’re reaching your limit. He dislodges his fangs from your ruined arm and brings your wrists together in a slippery hold, leaving you helpless as he fucks up into you. That’s the moment he rams into your deepest crevice, going stiff and spurting his seed until you can feel it sloshing around in your stomach.

It’s enough. It’s enough for you. His completion and the collective burning of your entire body is enough to sate your shattered sense of mind. The black spots on your vision morph and expand as if to beckon you to the void, and you feel yourself falling. You tense up, come, and go completely lax.

Aftercare consists of your brain shutting off entirely. You barely register a pair of arms around you, a warm shoulder to lay your head on, and a gentle voice murmuring your praises. A tissue dabs at dried flecks of blood on your mouth, and at the mess between your legs, a fluffy cloud smothering the remaining embers of your tryst.

“I love you, Eve… sleep. When you wake up, I’ll be right here… to clean and patch you up…”

You’re already out of it, snuggled into his side with a blissed-out look on your face. He chuckles to himself and presses a kiss against your forehead with gore-stained lips,

“From now on, let’s stay together always...”

**Author's Note:**

> You did it. You made it to the end. If you read this whole thing, thank you for putting up with me!! ❤ This was really mentally draining to write, so I apologize for... the way it is, lol.
> 
> Songs that helped me write this trainwreck: Corruption by Oonuma Parsley, Koukatsu by MARETU, 決 by RINGO, and the Fruits Basket theme song (because fuck me if that isn't perfect aftercare music).


End file.
